Fantasy 03 - Double Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  "No, I didn't."

  "Bastard."

  "Now, now, let's don't bring my poor mother into it. It's been well established that she married the old asshole."

  At the insulting reference to their mutual sire, Ophelia was incensed, but she was anxious to sway him and bit down on any caustic retort.

  "Anne hates me. She always has. She'll cast me out in a trice. I'm your sister. Don't you care what will happen to me?"

  "You should have thought of that before you and Percy rejected Jamie's offer. It was more than generous."

  She paused, murder in her gaze. "What offer?"

  "Jamie's not without some empathy for your plight. He proposed that you be given one of the smaller estates and a liberal quarterly allowance."

  "And... ?"

  "Percy tossed it back in Jamie's face. He claimed he didn't need charity from his own coffers. So you get nothing."

  "I was never consulted!"

  Jack shrugged. "I guess you should take it up with Percy, next time there's a lull under the blankets."

  She rippled with panic, indicating that her lover was Percy, after all, but she hastily tamped down her reaction.

  "I have no idea what you mean," she insisted.

  "Suit yourself, but you really should watch that temper of yours. In this instance, it's cost you a pretty penny."

  She whirled away and stomped off, looming toward the manor like a thundercloud ready to rain mayhem on Percy's parade, and Jack almost felt sorry for the man.

  He shook his head in disgust, wondering at the crazed taint of Merrick blood that flowed in his veins. How could he be so closely related to the strange pair? He'd be glad when Percy and Ophelia left, and he wished Jamie would get on with the wedding so that there'd be no reason for them to dawdle.

  Only disaster would come from their presence at Gladstone, but it wasn't Jack's province to send them packing. He had to observe from the sidelines and clean up whatever messes they caused.

  He turned his mind to more pleasant subjects, like Sarah Carstairs and her son, Tim. Jack hadn't wanted to appear as if he was hovering, so he hadn't checked on Tim in several hours, but he was eager to make sure the boy was adjusting. Tim was working in the stables and sleeping there with the other grooms, but that situation would improve as matters resolved.

  Jack hadn't spoken with Sarah about what he'd done, and he couldn't wait to hear how grateful she was for his intervening on Tim's behalf.

  Smiling at the prospect, Jack spun and went inside.

  Anne was having the most splendid dream, where she was relaxed and aroused in the way only Jamie could make her, when it dawned on her that she wasn't dreaming.

  Jamie was with her and slowly goading her to consciousness. He was nuzzling her bosom, his fingers on her nipples, the thin fabric of her summer nightgown providing a delightful friction.

  She was so happy to see him that she could barely keep from making a fool of herself with silly pronunciations of relief.

  After he'd stolen her virginity, he'd vanished. At first, she'd been pleased that he was gone, but as he'd stayed away for an entire day, then another and another, she'd been irate. How could he ravish her so spectacularly, then trot off as if the encounter had been insignificant? She wasn't some London doxy he could use and abuse!

  But as his absence had continued, her fury had metamorphosed into mortification. Evidently, he'd pressed the issue of marital relations but had discovered that he didn't enjoy her in an amorous fashion. She hadn't satisfied him, but she hadn't a clue as to how or why she'd failed to entice.

  Now, like an unexpected gift on Christmas morning, here he was! How could she be angry?

  She sighed and stretched, loving the feel of his body on hers, and she reached down and ruffled his hair. He stopped what he was doing and grinned up at her.

  "Hello, sleepyhead," he murmured. "I didn't think you'd ever wake up."

  He looked wicked, unrepentant, a sin any woman would gladly commit.

  "Where have you been?" she asked. "I was so worried."

  "Really? I don't remember anyone ever worrying about me before."

  "Then you should know that, with you as my husband, I'm positive I'll fret constantly. And I don't care for it, Jamie. It makes me grouchy."

  He chuckled and rolled them so that she was on top of him, braced on an elbow and scowling at him as if he were a misbehaving schoolboy.

  "I wasn't going to come back," he oddly admitted.

  "Not ever?"

  To her surprise, the notion had her catching her breath in panic. Apparently, she was growing accustomed to having him around, and life without him would be terribly dull.

  "But... why?"

  For a brief moment, it seemed as if he might explain; then he tugged at the strap of her nightgown. Her breast popped free, and he rooted down and sucked the nipple in his mouth.

  "Are you still sore?" he inquired.

  "No, why?"

  "Because I want to make love to you. It's all I thought about the whole time I was away." "So you're not upset with me?" "Why would I be?"

  "When you left, I assumed I did something wrong, so you changed your mind about marrying me."

  "I didn't change my mind, and I could never be upset with you."

  "Never?"

  "Well, not about anything that happens in here when we're alone."

  "So ... I did everything correctly?"

  "Of course. If you'd been any more correct, I'd have died and gone to Heaven. Now about your womanly parts..."

  He was pulling her nightgown down and off, quickly stripping her, and he rolled them again, so that she was tucked beneath him.

  "My womanly parts are fine," she insisted.

  "They certainly are." He slid two fingers into her sheath, and he paused and gazed at her, his confusion plain, his consternation palpable.

  "You make me happy," he said. "Why is that?"

  She didn't know what sort of answer would be appropriate, so instead, she drew him into a kiss that he abruptly ended so that he could kneel to yank off his shirt. She came up on her knees, too, and boldly she rested her palm on the placard of his pants.

  "The other night, you said we were built differently."

  "We are."

  "I want to see you."

  She'd galvanized his attention. He was fixated on the naughty spot where her hand was positioned.

  "Are you sure?" he queried. "You won't swoon with maidenly alarm?"

  "No swooning. I promise."

  "All right."

  He started in on the buttons of his trousers, opening the front as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He jerked the fabric down to his flanks, and she was stunned to see the large rod protruding from his loins.

  It was very big, very hard, all red and menacing, and it seemed alive, as if it was reaching out to her. How could she be twenty-five years old and not know such a disparity existed?

  "My goodness!" she mused. "Would you look at that?"

  She pushed him onto his back so that she could move closer for a thorough examination, and she hovered between his legs and explored every inch. The shaft was warm and rigid, but smooth and pliant, too, and she stroked across it, tightening the skin at the crown, letting it go.

  Each touch had the most riveting effect on his anatomy. He would tense and relax, would hitch his breath, then exhale and mutter.

  "What's it called?" she asked. "A cock, usually. Or a phallus. When I'm feeling friendly, I refer to it as my John Thomas." "You named it?"

  He barked with laughter. "I guess I did."

  She began again, and he couldn't bear to watch. He flung an arm over his eyes, so she was free to try whatever she liked.

  Without thinking, she bent down and kissed the tip, and he lurched away as if he'd been burned.

  He appeared horrified or shocked, which made her angry. He was the one who claimed everything was allowed.

  "What is it?" she snapped. "What did I do?"

  He was up
on his knees again, advancing on her like a beast of prey. "Oh, I am going to have such fun teaching you how to use that mouth of yours."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'll show you later."

  "Show me now."

  "No. At the moment, I'm busy."

  "With what?"

  "With you, my little strumpet. With you."

  He tossed her onto the mattress and came down on top of her. He gripped her thighs, widened them, and in a thrice he was impaled and flexing into her with a raucous abandon.

  There was a tenderness in his expression, as if— despite his protestations to the contrary—he might be developing fond feelings for her, and she tucked away the realization for subsequent dissection and analysis.

  Could he learn to love her? Why couldn't it happen? Why not?

  As she was quickly discovering, there was nothing finer than having Jamie Merrick's regard. He made her feel special and needed, and her heart raced with a foolish, giddy joy. For a woman who'd never believed she'd marry but who would get to spend her life rollicking with him, she'd done all right for herself, after all.

  Twelve

  “How dare you!" "What? What did I do?" Sarah stormed into the dark, empty kitchen, as Jack Merrick whirled around.

  It was very late, everyone asleep except for the two of them. The cook always heated bathing water after supper, leaving it in a basin behind the stove, and in Sarah's mad dash to locate him she hadn't paused to remember that if he'd come to the kitchen, he was intending to wash.

  He'd already removed his shirt and boots, and he was just about to start in on his trousers. He stood before her, all that virile male flesh perfectly flaunted, and of course her harlot's body quivered with unrestrained glee at catching him so indisposed.

  A single candle burned on the table, and it starkly outlined the planes of his face, making him look sexy and devilish, and she pulled up short. When she was away from him, she forgot how handsome he was, and she didn't care to be reminded.

  She'd been searching for him ever since she'd gone

  for her afternoon walk to visit Tim, only to find that he was missing and his hovel had been leveled. Her panic had been so great that she'd worried she might simply drop over dead.

  She'd raced to the manor, wondering if Ophelia had sent Tim away. She'd often threatened that she would and had used the possibility as leverage to win concessions from Sarah so that, for the prior decade, Sarah had basically been Ophelia's slave.

  Sarah would do anything to keep Tim safe. As a result, whatever Ophelia ordered, whatever Ophelia demanded, Sarah complied without complaint, groveling to Ophelia's petty whims like a drudge.

  But while hurrying home, Sarah had seen Tim playing with some boys behind the stables. She'd been so relieved that it had taken a full hour to compose herself before she could saunter over and calmly question him about what had happened.

  He'd explained how Jack had tracked him down, how Jack's brother, the new earl—the notorious pirate, himself!—had asked Tim to move to the house to learn a trade. At having the Merrick twins interested in him, Tim had been so proud that Sarah was extremely ashamed.

  In all the years since his birth, she'd never aided him in any fashion that mattered, yet in the better part of an afternoon Jack had altered Tim's life forever.

  Did Jack have to rub salt in her wounds? She was a disgusting coward, a woman so terrified of a bit of scandal that she'd let her only child wallow in poverty and despair. At Jack's forcing her to confront how pathetic she was, her temper was raging and she was eager to commit mayhem.

  "It was none of your affair! None, I tell you."

  "What wasn't?" he inquired, confused.

  "Tim is my son. Mine!"

  "Yes, Sarah, Tim is your son. Poor lad."

  The insult had her rippling with fury. "You had no business interfering."

  "I had every right. My brother is earl, and I am to be his estate manager."

  On top of everything else she'd endured during the dreadful day, the news was too unsettling.

  "You're staying?"

  "Yes, so it's up to me to pick the employees who'll work the farm, and / have picked Tim. For now."

  "What does that mean? For now?"

  "It means for now," he said. "I haven't made any final decisions."

  Was he saying Tim might be sent from Gladstone? For how long? On what grounds? Jack had the same blood running in his veins as Ophelia and their reprehensible father. He might do anything.

  Dismissing Sarah, he turned and went to the table, where he unwrapped a towel. He'd brought a razor, soap, and a change of clothes, and the sight of his toiletries was unbearably intimate. She yanked her eyes away.

  "I don't want you to stay here," she declared.

  "It's not up to you. And if you must know, I'm not too keen on having you here, either, so I guess we're both stuck. Unless you'd like to hit the road ... ? I can arrange to have you gone like that."

  He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing off the walls, and it was frightening to recall her precarious position. Whether Anne married the earl or not, she and her sister would be at the mercy of the Merrick brothers for the rest of their lives, and Sarah abhorred the notion.

  Her entire life had been one ordeal after the next, due to her being constantly under the thumb of various males who were never concerned as to her fate. She yearned to be mistress of her own destiny, and she couldn't abide the thought of Jack remaining at Gladstone. She couldn't be bumping into him on the stairs or in the hall by her room, couldn't he awake at night hoping he was about to sneak to her bedchamber again.

  "Do you mind?" he queried. "I'd like to get on with my bath."

  "I'm not leaving till we hash this out."

  "I'm finished discussing it."

  "Well, I'm not! Tim is my son, and I won't have you meddling."

  "Now you claim him?" Jack laughed cruelly. "Why would you? You tossed him aside as if he was a mutt in a litter of puppies. He's nothing to you, and whatever I choose for him, your opinion is irrelevant."

  "What a despicable thing to say to me."

  "Name one thing you've ever done for him besides bring him a few scraps of dried bread."

  "It wasn't like that!" she insisted.

  "Wasn't it?"

  "I love him! I've always loved him. I tried to do what was best for him."

  "Every time you open your mouth, I like you less. Please go away before I end up despising you completely."

  He grabbed the bar of soap and flung it into the washing tub, but she didn't budge.

  "I've lived here at Percy's discretion," she tersely explained. "He and Ophelia wouldn't let me keep Tim. What could I have done?"

  "First of all, Percy is an ass. And second of all, pardon me if I seem overly touchy on the subject, but

  I have no sympathy for a parent who doesn't want his own child. If Tim had been mine, I'd have killed Percy before I'd have denied him." "Bully for you!"

  At that moment, she hated Jack Merrick as she'd never hated anyone, and if she'd been holding a pistol, she'd have shot him dead.

  What did he know about anything?

  She'd been a desperate sixteen-year-old girl, with no mother to guide her. The instant pregnancy was mentioned, her paramour had fled to London. Aunt Edith had offered no advice but had merely railed about sin and damnation. Ophelia had been the only one willing to grapple with the consequences, the only one willing to take charge, and Sarah had been more than happy to follow Ophelia's stern instructions.

  It was later, when the enormity of Sarah's loss began to sink in, that she'd grieved over her decision, but by then she couldn't change the charade they'd set in motion. Tim had been ensconced with his new family, the situation accepted by all.

  There'd been no way to renege on her devil's bargain, so she'd observed Tim from afar. She was heartsick and guilt ridden over her stupidity, yet Jack Merrick stood there smirking and condemning her as if he were some sort of wrathful god.

&n
bsp; "You pompous blowhard!" she seethed. "You have no right to judge me!"

  "Sticks and stones, Sarah. Sticks and stones. Now I'd appreciate it if I could have some privacy."

  His flip attitude enraged her, and she resolved to tarry simply because he'd ordered her out. She was sick of men telling her what to do, sick of them controlling her every move so that she couldn't so much as swallow a crumb of food without one of them informing her that it was allowed.

  "I resided at Gladstone long before you ever arrived," she said. "I'll be damned if I'll scurry off to my room on your say-so."

  "Suit yourself."

  He shrugged and, as if he hadn't a care in the world, he unbuttoned his trousers. His gaze was locked on hers, and with each flick of his wrist he bared more of his abdomen, until the placard was flopping loose.

  He seemed to be daring her to remain, or taunting her with his nudity. Apparently, he was expecting to chase her out in a prudish snit, but he was in for a surprise. She was no squeamish miss who would quail at viewing a man's torso. No, she was Sarah Carstairs, the selfish, faithless woman who possessed the intellect of a ninny and the soul of a harlot.

  Nothing would thrill her more than to watch him at his bath. Why, if he but asked, she'd waltz over and wash him. It would be the ultimate wicked pleasure.

  With no concern for modesty, he tugged his pants down and off. Then he climbed into the tub, giving her plenty of opportunity to assess his masculine form.

  He was a fine male specimen, all muscle and brawn, his chest broad, his waist and hips narrow. His body was that of a warrior, honed by rough living and battle. There were scars everywhere, evidence of prior stab wounds, of prior gunshot wounds, and he'd been flogged, the skin on his back crisscrossed with old injuries.

  The sight made her queasy. Mentally, she'd comprehended that his time away from England had been difficult, but until that instant, the truth hadn't really hit home.

  He glared over his shoulder. "Why don't you make yourself useful and scrub my back?" "I don't want to." "Liar."

  He held out the washing cloth, dangling it like a talisman, but she refused to reach for it.

  "You were flogged," she said, stating the obvious.

  "I certainly was."

  "Did it happen often?"